A Year in the Life of a Playground Mother: A laugh-out-loud funny novel about life at the School Gates (A School Gates Comedy Book 1)

by Christie Barlow

  I had no idea what the purpose behind this was until she collapsed in a heap at my feet.

  ‘Time? What was my time?’

  I wanted to shout back, ‘Your time is up, you lunatic,’ as I secretly hoped the men in white coats would be next through my gate.

  Alas, no such luck as the next person to pass through the gate was Rupert.

  ‘How did she do?’ he hollered.

  Matt’s timing was as impeccable as ever as he appeared and handed me another beer.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he said with an amused tone to his voice.

  We both waited in anticipation for Penelope’s reply. At this point she lay flat on her back – a position Rupert was obviously used to seeing women in – fighting for breath. I considered phoning an ambulance but after finding a pulse, I helped her up and sat her on a chair. I moved the beer out of the way and handed her a glass of iced water.

  ‘Sports day… it’s nearly sports day,’ she panted.

  I could barely hear her words as her head was squeezed between her knees and I was frightened she was going to pass out.

  ‘Penelope, what are you panting on about, you left school years ago, many years ago?’ I asked.

  ‘The mothers’ race! The mothers’ race! I have to win. I need to beat Wendy and Camilla Noland!’ she gasped.

  I looked in Matt’s direction. He was circling his index finger at the side of his head, obviously inferring that he thought she was a fruit loop. I realised I was shaking my head in disbelief with that strained expression I have on my face when I am absolutely flabbergasted and forced myself to stop. I didn’t get it, I just didn’t get it. Maybe it was a village thing or just something that these people did.

  Penelope got her breath back and pulled herself together. She was ready to go again. I, on the other hand, had already had enough of this caper and ordered the men to do what they did best and throw some meat on the fire. I needed food as I felt a little light-headed at this moment, not sure if this was caused by the beer or the sight of Penelope running in tight white shorts around the garden. On Penelope’s impressive third lap she looked like a T-Rex thundering after its prey. The dog sat in the conservatory, clearly amused watching Penelope run round and round. He decided that this must be some sort of game and he wanted to play. So there I was, sitting in the sunshine in my own garden, trying to mind my own business when the standard poodle escaped from the conservatory and started chasing the T-Rex thundering around the garden. I sat open-mouthed, completely lost for words at the spectacle in front of me so Matt took the opportunity and stuck another beer in my mouth.

  After a couple of laps the dog suddenly leapt off the ground and launched himself at Penelope, placing his paws on the back of her shoulders. This clearly caught her by surprise and knocked her off balance and she tumbled to the turf, face down in a heap with her backside sticking in the air. Not only was she face down in the turf but her shorts were covered in chicken shit and grass stains that were never likely to come out. Then, to add insult to injury, the dog started humping her.

  This was very unfortunate for Penelope to say the least. There was no rescuing those new tight-fitting shorts – or her dignity. The only thought that crossed my mind at that point was the chat I needed to have with the dog about his taste in women.

  Rupert looked mildly amused at the entertainment Penelope was providing but also appeared a little preoccupied with his mobile phone. Every time Penelope nipped to the fridge for another beer, his mobile phone was straight in his hand and placed back on the table before she reappeared.

  ‘What’s the pile of stuff you’ve got clogging up your landing area?’ piped up Penelope.

  I wasn’t quite sure why Penelope had ventured upstairs but I answered her anyhow.

  ‘It’s just old clothes and games that I need to sort through and decide what we are keeping and what’s going into the charity bag.’

  ‘What are you thinking of doing with the dance mat in the pile?’ Penelope enquired.

  I had visions of this being a new mothers’ craze in the playground or maybe Penelope had dreams of becoming a hip-hop dancer. Nothing would surprise me at this moment in time.

  ‘Why? What are you thinking, Penelope?’ I asked. ‘Would you like it?’

  Penelope replied that Annabel would love the dance mat. I was surprised at the unusual mention of Annabel as Penelope continued.

  ‘She is always dancing and singing. She’d love it.’

  Penelope thought she was going to have a career in entertainment. I thought to myself, if daughters take after their mothers then on this occasion Penelope could be correct. The entertainment she had provided in the last hour had been hilarious; I wish I had sold tickets. I handed over the dance mat to Penelope as my children had had it for a while and never really played with it so if someone was going to make use of it I didn’t mind.

  They finally left about two hours later after sinking a few more beers with the newly acquired dance mat tucked safely under their arm.

  Once I had cleaned up the empties from outside and washed and dried the dishes I curled up for the rest of the evening on the settee. The children were all tucked up in bed, Matt was watching the telly and I settled down with a good book. Noticing the lid on my laptop was slightly ajar I wandered over to it to switch it off. Just as I was about to close the lid, there before my very eyes was Penelope’s eBay home page. I assumed she must have had auctions finishing when she was here and wanted to check how much money she had made. I was just about to slam the lid shut when I stopped dead in my tracks. Listed in the last hour was a dance mat – not any old dance mat but my dance mat!

  I was absolutely livid. Penelope was trying to make money out of me and was succeeding. The bids were already up to ten pounds. The cheeky mare was trying to make a quick tenner out of our friendship and there was no way she was getting away with it. As rage took over, I placed a bid on my own dance mat. I was going to win that mat back – not because I wanted it but because I was going to make Penelope wish she had never set eyes on the flippin’ thing. The bids were now heading towards twenty quid and I imagined Penelope sitting smugly in her conservatory, watching the bids going up and counting her money. I thought I’d see how smug she was when I won the mat and sent her a lovely message telling her that I would collect it to save her posting it. I knew exactly where I wanted to post that mat.

  As the auction neared a close a week later I sat in my conservatory fuming. I watched the bids rocket upwards until the highest bid was twenty-five quid with ten minutes to go. I couldn’t resist and I decided to send Penelope a text message. It read…

  Thanks for a great afternoon/evening last weekend. Did Annabel enjoy her new dance mat?

  Her reply was almost instant as I read, She absolutely loves it! Thank you so much.

  Penelope was none the wiser that I was on to her, she didn’t have a clue. The auction ended with me as the highest bidder. I couldn’t believe it. Slumping back into the chair, I was the proud owner of a dance mat, my own bloody dance mat. A dance mat that had just cost me £27.31 to buy back.

  I wasn’t quite sure what I was going to do now. I hadn’t quite figured out my next plan of action. Then, almost immediately, I had an email from Penelope via eBay asking me if I was available to pay for the item so she could pop it in the post on Monday morning.

  Good job I had an email address she would never know was mine. I knew the email address attractsnutters would come in handy one day. Sending a lovely email back I could hear the sarcastic tone in my reply; luckily for Penelope she didn’t suspect a thing.

  ‘Thank you very much for listing your lovely dance mat, my daughter will absolutely love this. I live very close to you.’

  Little did she know at this point, it was just down the lane and around the corner.

  I continued, ‘Don’t trouble yourself posting it, I will nip round and collect it on Monday morning, if it’s convenient for you?’

  I knew Penelope would be peeved a
t the offer of collection because I noticed on the auction she had charged way over the odds for the postage and was probably hoping to pocket a few extra quid that way as well.

  I had no intention of paying for the mat but I had every intention of making Penelope squirm. The time of collection was arranged for the same time we would usually start our walk together. Sneakily I had suggested this time purely for the sheer amusement of what Penelope would say to me regarding her inability to walk that day. I actually felt disappointed in myself stooping to such a level but telling myself I could only react to how someone treated me made it seem a little more bearable.

  Penelope was a no-show in the playground that Monday morning. Rupert had been roped into dropping the children off at school. I didn’t need to enquire where Penelope was because Botox Bernie was already grilling him, trying to establish why he was in the playground and not his wife. As the story went on, I could hear Rupert relaying the facts that Penelope had been up all night with a stomach bug and was trying to sleep. Poor Penelope, my heart went out to her. Call me cynical but I didn’t think there was anything wrong with her. My gut instinct told me I was about to receive a text from her letting me know she was unable to walk this morning, not because she was waiting in for the buyer of her dance mat but because she was feeling under the weather.

  And just on cue, my phone beeped and the text arrived.

  I’m sorry I’m not feeling very well, I won’t be walking this morning x.

  My plan of action was simple. I was really worried about my poorly friend so I would pop round just before ten o’clock to see if there was anything she needed or wanted me to do. And that’s exactly what I did.

  Knocking on Penelope’s front door I stood on the doorstep waiting in anticipation without the twenty-seven odd quid she thought she was getting.

  Penelope opened the door as bold as brass and didn’t appear sick in any way, shape or form. Lo and behold, tucked under her arm was the dance mat.

  ‘Hi, I just thought I would pop in to see how you are feeling. I bet you are exhausted if you’ve been up all night, go and put your feet up and let me make you a brew.’

  If the truth be told I actually barged past her so she had no choice but to let me in and, making my way towards the kitchen, I clicked the kettle on. Penelope was standing before me with a full face of makeup, dressed in her best clothes and not looking in the least bit sick. The one thing she did look though was edgy, continuously straining her neck to peer out of the kitchen window. Penelope was on the lookout for the mystery buyer.

  ‘Just think, Penelope, being sick is always a bonus – think of the weight loss,’ I joked. ‘You don’t look too bad actually,’ I continued. ‘In fact you look extremely well. What’s with the dance mat under your arm? Are you just about to shake your moves?’

  ‘Err, I was just tidying up,’ Penelope replied.

  We both knew that was a lie.

  I sauntered into the conservatory and plonked myself comfortably onto the settee. Penelope looked like she had ants in her pants, she just couldn’t sit still. She was up and down peering out of the window every two minutes.

  ‘Is everything OK? You seem a little agitated,’ I enquired.

  Her laptop was open on her eBay page. She had pocketed quite a few quid that week according to her sales totals.

  ‘I feel a little unwell, a little queasy, I think I’ve overdone it, maybe I need to go and have a lie down,’ she replied weakly.

  ‘Nice try,’ was my response.

  She looked at me with a puzzled expression on her face.

  ‘Let me make this a little easier for you, Penelope. My guess is you aren’t the slightest bit ill. My guess is you sent Rupert to the playground to tell me you were unwell. My guess is you are sat there squirming in your seat hoping to get rid of me sharpish because you are expecting your buyer to collect the dance mat you have sold on eBay. My dance mat, the dance mat I gave you in good faith for Annabel.’

  Feeling the rage rise throughout my body I continued.

  ‘But greed has clearly outweighed our friendship, a friendship that you value at twenty-seven quid! I can see the cogs turning while you try to work out how I know it’s twenty-seven quid. Well I am your buyer, Penelope, but as we both know I will not be handing over any cash. I will take back my mat and leave you to recover from your illness. You look a little pale. I suggest you go for a lie down.’

  I gave her a deathly stare, a stare that told her not to mess with me. Picking up the mat, I left the house, leaving Penelope still catching flies as her chin hit the floor. I didn’t even want the flippin’ dance mat back. It had been gathering dust in the Shack for quite some time but that wasn’t the point. I knew for sure now that Penelope would never pass my seven-year rule. Who needed high maintenance friends like her? There was only one thing for it, I would list the mat on eBay myself and if Penelope wanted the flaming thing that badly, she could bid on it herself.

  I wasn’t sure how Penelope would be feeling about me reacquiring the dance mat but when I got home I knew her day had the potential to significantly go downhill even more.

  Making myself a cuppa I logged on to my laptop. There, staring straight back at me on the right-hand side of my computer screen, was an advert. An advert for a dating website showing pictures of available men, which looped round displaying a new man every few seconds. The image that had just appeared on my screen was a photograph of Rupert Kensington and he was advertising himself as a single man. I had already taken a double glance but it was definitely Rupert. There in bold letters was his profile, or rather the profile of ‘Rupert Bond’. The silly sod had even used his real first name but obviously fancied himself as a secret agent with his fantasy surname.

  I did what any normal person would do in this situation and clicked on his profile. I was intrigued. Rupert Bond the single man was a professional athlete. I nearly spat out my tea, Rupert was no more an athlete than the likes of James Corden or the dad from Stavros Flatley. The only thing athletic about Rupert was his athlete’s foot.

  The photo of Rupert showed him standing next to his pride and joy – his ex-wheels – wearing some dodgy leather jacket and a cream scarf. I noticed that he neglected to mention his wife or his new ridiculous bubble car but his athletic career sounded amazing. I was in awe. He’d travelled all over the world and won medals. I knew for a fact he had never left the village and had never been on holiday abroad.

  No way! Rupert Bond even had his own boat; Bubble Car Rupert didn’t have a bloody boat – he didn’t even have a plastic one in the bath. Gosh, he made himself out to be such a catch that I felt like answering his advert myself.

  On this website there was an opportunity to rate the women you had been matched to and Rupert was not shy in rising to this task. There was one woman in particular that Rupert had reviewed numerous times. I could only assume that he must have dated her on more than one occasion so I clicked on her photo. She was a pretty woman with blonde bobbed hair. She had a beauty spot on her face and seemed familiar to me but I couldn’t quite work out where I had laid eyes on her before. With all this information in my grasp, my dilemma was whether or not to share my findings with Penelope. I pondered while eating another custard cream. Based on previous experiences in these circumstances the messenger is always the one to be shot. I didn’t really mind getting shot over this, at least then I would have a quieter life.

  As I closed down my laptop there was a knock on the door. I opened it to discover a sheepish Penelope standing in front of me holding a bouquet of flowers.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said meekly.

  I was impressed she had the balls to come round to apologise but I certainly wasn’t impressed with the standard of flowers. They looked more like dead weeds being held together by a tatty peach ribbon.

  I let her in – I suppose I had to – she had no other friends and now I knew Rupert was playing at being Mr Bond, flogging himself on dating websites. She was going to need a friend more than ever
now but I decided to keep the information to myself, at least until I had a chance to talk it over with Matt.

  I knew this week was never going to be quiet, especially since school sports day was less than three days away. Putting on the kettle, as that’s what people do in times of trauma, I watched my only friend Penelope running laps of my garden again. This time the dog just glanced at her with one eye out of the conservatory and didn’t even attempt to move from his chair. He probably thought he could do much better.

  Now though I had yet another dilemma. Not only did I need to decide whether to tell Penelope about Rupert’s presence on the dating website but, watching her bound round the garden, I also needed to choose whether to enter myself in the mothers’ race on sports day. I decided to sleep on both.

  Matt must have longed for the day when he arrived home from work and I had nothing to report. I spilled the beans about Rupert being on the dating website and have never seen him fire up his computer so quickly in my life. Matt didn’t believe me until he saw him with his own eyes. Rupert Bond in the flesh.

  ‘It all goes on in this village,’ he remarked shaking his head in disbelief.

  ‘What am I going to do about it?’ I asked him.

  ‘Absolutely nothing,’ he replied.

  I already knew that would be his response.

  ‘But if that was you on there I would want to know,’ I challenged.

  Matt raised his eyebrows in my direction and remarked, ‘I would not be stupid enough to enter my details on a dating website, let alone call myself Bond. I bet Rupert likes his women shaven, not furred,’ he sniggered, in a crappy Sean Connery accent.

  This remark gave us a ‘licence to laugh’ but Penelope would have a ‘licence to kill’ when she found out.

  The day Little Jonny was going to win his gold medal had finally arrived – the school sports day. When I arrived on the school field dressed in my comfy jeans and Converse All-Stars I felt a little underdressed. Penelope was waving at me from the front row. She must have been there at the crack of dawn to get those seats. She was wearing a chiffon dress and a hat with a brim so large it hit me in the face every time she turned her head. She looked ridiculous. Her heels were so high that she struggled to walk properly and staggered around looking very uncomfortable. I did wonder how on earth she was going to run the mothers’ race in those heels. I sat back in the chair and waved at my children as they trundled out from the classrooms, waiting in anticipation for the races to begin.